Life is nothing if not a series of terrific detours. At least mine has been. But the unifying thread, the signpost that’s always been there no matter how far or wide I’ve ventured off the beaten path, is that I have some ability with words. That is to say, I can write.
A little bit.
Maybe.
Perhaps my writing talent is not all that exceptional. Perhaps not even more than average. Whatever it is it certainly has not been cultivated or honed in a way that makes me swell with pride.
When I was young I told my mom I thought I’d be a writer, though it wasn’t really from any underlying sense of mission or purpose. Writing was simply the skill that seemed to come most easily, and as I aged intuition whispered in my ear that you should probably do what you’re good at.
Yet I had no literary heroes to speak of. I never even liked reading that much. My most prominent memory of being affected by literature as a preadolescent was when my dad forced me to read the complete Little House on the Prairie series, even going so far as to mandate chapter by chapter oral book reports before I was allowed off to play basketball or computer games or whatever else I was more interested in doing with my time.
To this day reading still feels like an acquired taste, the sweetness or bitterness of which is wholly dependent on the subject at hand. I’m ashamed to admit I never really learned to love reading, which is odd because it seems like a mandatory lower division requirement for anyone who fancies a career with words.
As I got older, went to school, and received formal training, not much changed in my relationship to my writing. I focused on what came easy, all along doing just enough work to get by. A broader meaning behind the words never unveiled itself. A clear mission was never internalized. The only thing apparent about my drive to write was a total lack of revelation.
And then I gave up.
And then for a long time writing was just something that I would revisit on occasion, like a distant uncle who lives two time zones away that you’re obligated to see every year or two or three.
That’s about the time the detours in my life started getting more severe.
I worked in a casino. I played poker professionally for four years. I loved and lost and loved again. I learned everything I could about digital marketing and blogging and then I worked at an agency until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I built something of my own.
The irony is that despite all my bouts of indifference and all the times I self sabotaged my writing via a lack of passion or a fear of failure, I’ve now come to a place in my life where I get paid for the letters I punch out on the keyboard. I am, in the strictest sense of the word, a writer.
We Like L.A., the blog which ultimately became my profession, is a worthy accomplishment. I’m proud of of the sweat and the tears that have gone into its development. I’m proud that the articles and videos I help create are seen by hundreds of thousands (sometimes millions) of eyeballs every month. I’m proud that we’ve carved out a valuable place in the Los Angeles community informing people on how to to connect with new experiences, events and culture.
I’m proud of all that, and still I know it’s not my best work. It’s not the craft that I hope someday to create, nor is it the truest expression of my abilities as a writer. That’s a conundrum.
Remembering I’m not doing the absolute best of which I’m capable turns my stomach into a series of tattered, twisted knots, the layers of which I’m not exactly sure how to unwind. Yet my regret is more than simply the lament of potential untapped, it is the noticeable absence of life to bear witness. Two lives, actually.
The people I owe the most to, my parents, aren’t around to see any of my success, modest as that may be. No matter what heights I may or may not reach, whatever goals I may accomplish, that will always leave an uneasy twinge in the core of my being.
But I guess it’s all a timing thing, right? Who’s to say if they were still around if any of this would’ve worked itself out the way it did. Maybe my life would’ve been a different journey entirely.
Some guy with a cool (pun intended) sounding name once wrote a poem about the choice between two paths. His famous dilemma was that when he came to a fork in the woods he could only go one way. It seemed to turn out ok for him, but that was his story.
I’m here to tell you that I’ve gone down the road less traveled and come out the other side to arrive exactly where I started. Standing at the very same divergence, staring down the same signpost I’ve seen over and over and over again. Except something has changed, and that something is me.
Over the past few years I’ve proven my ability to stick with a mission. To complete a project. To go the distance.
I’ve make a conscious choice to embrace the detour, wherever it leads.
And that, more than anything, has made all the difference.
Featured photo by Max and Dee Bernt via flickr cc
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